


Your Bones are Holy Branches

by gbuzy12



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (Almost), Canon Compliant, Comfort/Angst, Crimson Flower Route, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Hubert has been pining since the monastery and you can't tell me otherwise, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, somewhat graphic depictions of injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26377279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gbuzy12/pseuds/gbuzy12
Summary: “You need to get me off this horse,” Ferdinand says harshly, his voice cracking. “Right now.”One of the knights speaks up from the other side of the horse. “General, your leg could be damaged more if we-”Ferdinand’s eyes burn into his, the tears in them shimmering in the light.“Right now, Hubert.”Hubert takes his outstretched hand, and nods.-When Ferdinand is injured, Hubert is placed in charge of caring for him. There are definitely no inconvenient feelings involved.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 10
Kudos: 103





	Your Bones are Holy Branches

Hubert peels off his gloves carefully, wincing as the blood sticks to his skin. Battle rarely phases him, but the aftermath is always unpleasant, an endless drag of cleaning and counting. Throwing the ruined gloves to the side, he weaves his way through the throngs of soldiers returning to camp. Some he directs to the medical tents, watching them limp through the crowds, while others he tells to stay out of the way of the rest. Even though the battle ended hours ago, choruses of screams and orders wash over the camp as the wounded are tended to and the generals try to maintain order amongst the troops coming in. None of this is Hubert’s domain, so he begins to make his way towards his tent on the far side of the camp.  
Raised voices ring over the tents, echoing off the canvas, and Hubert rounds the corner to find the narrow spaces between the tents blocked by a rider. Horses are normally tethered outside, but one knight is trotting through the tents. Around the horse, knights appear to be trying to get the rider to stop, arguing loudly. Hubert sighs, and strides up.  
“What is happening here?”  
The rider turns to him, his shoulders slouching.  
“ _Hubert_. Thank the Goddess.”  
Ferdinand’s face, masked in grime and shining with tears, appears through the slats in his helmet. An armored hand extends towards Hubert, bent and caked in blood.  
“You need to get me off this horse,” Ferdinand says harshly, his voice cracking. “Right now.”  
One of the knights speaks up from the other side of the horse. “General, your leg could be damaged more if we-”  
Ferdinand’s eyes burn into his, the tears in them shimmering in the light.  
“Right now, Hubert.”  
Hubert takes his outstretched hand, and nods.  
“Ah, first… the armor. How much can you get off by yourself?”  
“The outer parts, but not the breastplate,” Ferdinand replies quickly, his voice steady now. “Someone will have to help me.”  
“You.” He points at the women who’d spoken. “Find the smallest, lightest person you can.”  
She nods and runs off.  
Hubert takes Ferdinand’s lance and axe, from him, dumping them on the ground with a clang. One of the knights rushes forward, piling the pieces of his gauntlets on top of the weapons. Another calms the horse, murmuring to her as she tosses her head in confusion. The woman returns with a young boy from the village over, whom she lifts onto the back of the horse. Ferdinand instructs him on the removal of his armor in a clear, steady voice, and the pauldrons and breastplate are handed down. Ferdinand throws his helmet to the ground and thanks the child when he finishes, who nods mutely.  
“Alright, now to step down. I’ll have to swing myself over to one side.”  
“General, are you absolutely sure, I can-”  
“Quiet,” Hubert snaps at the knight. “It is impossible to attend to him on the horse. He has to come down.” She shrinks back from him, her eyes wide. Shaking his head to disperse the worry, Hubert forces his voice to be calm. “Go find Manuela if you’re so insistent on helping.”  
As she scampers off, Hubert rounds the horse. On the other side, Ferdinand’s leg is hanging limp, still trapped in the stirrup. The armor is dented; a massive blow seems to have landed on his thigh. Hubert swallows down the rush of panic at the sight and reaches forward, taking Ferdinand by the calf to pull his foot out of the stirrups. Ferdinand chokes as he does, more tears pouring down his face as the leg is jostled. Behind the knight he'd yelled at appears Manuela, her eyes assessing the damage.  
“Now you should be able to drop down,” Hubert says quietly, averting his eyes from Ferdinand’s face. He carefully watches Ferdinand's hands grip the front of the saddle as he lifts himself awkwardly, hovering in case he becomes unbalanced. Quickly, Ferdinand swings his good leg over, the other turning against the saddle as he does so. He screams, short and sharp, as his injured thigh bangs against the side of the horse. Hubert grabs his arm, steadying him as he tries to breathe through the pain. Ferdinand’s hand lands on his shoulder and the grip is like a vice, pinching the muscle hard enough that Hubert thinks he’ll bruise. He feels his breaths rising to pace with Ferdinand’s, his heart clenching as hard as the fingers on his skin.  
Ferdinand’s voice wobbles as he directs Hubert and one of the taller knights to help him down. The two of them each take one of Ferdinand’s arms, lowering him as gently as they can to the ground. As his foot hits the dirt, he loses his balance, tipping the lean into Hubert's chest.  
Ferdinand secured as best as he can be, Hubert and the knight all but drag him to an empty tent, Manuela rushing ahead to ready a bed for him. When they reach it, the knight lowers Ferdinand down, awkwardly holding up his chest, while Hubert takes the shattered leg in his hands to keep it from hitting the floor. Ferdinand throws his head back, blood dripping down his lower lip as he bites it.  
Manuela’s hands shake as she looks over his armor, crumpled and crushed into his skin.  
“This needs to come off, but…” She looks up at Ferdinand, who is panting, his eyes squeezed shut with pain. “I don’t have anything that will knock him out. It won’t be pretty.”  
Hubert thinks for a moment, gathering himself. Calm. He has to stay calm. “The screaming will disturb the others. Can you cast Silence on him?”  
To her credit, Manuela only flinches slightly. “Yes, that should work. I can give him a potion that will dull the pain, but it won’t do much.” She directs the knight to her bag, and he begins rummaging through it as she leans over Ferdinand, talking softly as she brushes his hair out of his face. Hubert’s eyes are trained on the mangled mess of his leg, the blood oozing from the cracks in his armor, the metal ripping into his skin, the bent pieces digging into his thigh.  
The knight returns with a blue bottle, which Manuela tips into Ferdinand’s mouth. She casts the spell, her fingers twisting in the air, and the huffs and gasps of pain vanish from the tent.  
With that queue, Hubert goes to work. He starts on the thigh, carefully peeling the pieces away, while the knight rushes to take off the armor around Ferdinand's ankle. Manuela holds broad shoulders down as he twists in agony, his screams wracking his body silently. It is almost worse, watching him sob and yell as he tries weakly to move away from them, watching nothing come out of his mouth.  
They’re close to meeting in the middle at his knee when Ferdinand finally passes out, and all three of them sigh in relief. No one speaks as they strip the rest of the armor off. Manuela shoos them both out of the way and cuts up the leg of Ferdinand’s pants, peeling away the fabric. She grabs Hubert’s hand and slaps it over the gash in his thigh; the blood gushes between his fingers but he presses down as hard as he can, trying to keep him from bleeding out. The golden glow of magic fills the tent as Manuela prays for healing, and the wound under his fingers begins to close. After a minute of frantic prayers, Manuela shoves him out of the way and he moves easily, leaning back on his heels to watch her hands run down the bruises already forming. The knight leaves the tent; Hubert can hear him heaving outside.  
Ferdinand’s thigh is definitely broken, dented inward from where the blow had caught him. Lacerations make spiderwebs across his skin from where the crushed armor had dug in, spreading out from the gash Hubert had just covered, now beginning to scab over. Manuela’s hands carefully move his knee, pressing into the skin. They glide over his hip, slipping under the remaining cloth. She digs her fingers into his calf before squeezing his ankle.  
“Well, it could be worse. Broken femur. Snapped something in his knee. Fractures in his ankle, but they aren’t major. I should be able to save his leg.”  
“Save?” Hubert chokes on the word.  
Manuela doesn’t bother to look up. “Yes. His bone is shattered. Normally an injury like this would mean amputation. But I am a very skilled doctor.”  
“…I guess I have no choice but to put my faith in you.”  
She nods primly. “There’s nothing more you can do here. Come back tomorrow, if you want.”  
“Thank you, Manuela. Truly.”  
She waves a hand dismissively, and Hubert takes that as his queue to leave.  
He wanders through the camp in a daze and no destination, aimlessly moving away from the tent. People part around him, dodging him and whispering to their companions. It is not unusual for this to happen, but it’s been years since the last time he’d been so universally avoided. Not since the monastery. He comes to the edge of the camp and walks on, heading towards the river. The water is slow moving in the summer heat, and he can see himself clearly reflected in it. He is up to his elbows in Ferdinand’s blood, and it clings to his dark shirt in blotches. His face is filthy, mud and drying blood covering his features. On both his cheeks lie straight tracks of cleaned skin. He raises a hand to touch one, watching his reflection in the water, but it only smears more blood.  
He washes in the river, and avoids the camp for the rest of the night.  
\- 

He wakes up with the sun, huddled under his coat on the banks of the river. The light is broken by the branches over him, the tree dropping a few leaves on him as it sways in the breeze. He picks up his discarded boots and bundles his coat over an arm, heading back towards the camp.  
First order of business is to report to Edelgard, who surely is annoyed by his absence. Ducking into her tent, he is unsurprised to see her already awake, or perhaps still awake. Her hair hangs loose over her cramped shoulders as she sits hunched over a piece of wood on her lap, covered in papers.  
“Hubert. You were nowhere to be found last night.”  
“I, ah, slept outside of the camp. Forgive me, Your Majesty, for neglecting my duties. It-”  
“How is Ferdinand?”  
He looks away from her bright, searching eyes. “He… lives. Your Majesty, I do not wish to be the bearer of ill news…”  
“None of that. I will not suffer to be left in the dark.”  
“As you wish.” The words catch in his throat, leaving a lump he has to swallow around. “He- It is- well. He may lose the leg.”  
It has been years since Edelgard’s voice sounded so small. “Lose it?”  
“Manuela suggested magic may be able to reduce the damage, but his bone… shattered.”  
Edelgard wraps her arms around herself, her fingers pressing into her skin. It is a vulnerability he is both honored to be privy to and terrified by. “I… see. I suppose there is nothing we can do.” Hubert nods silently, suddenly not trusting himself to speak.  
She shakes her head viciously, her hair swinging. “Go get yourself cleaned up, Hubert. There is work to be done.”  
“Of course, Your Majesty. But I would ask, ah, that-”  
“See if Manuela will let you spend the day in his tent. I’m certain he must be looked after anyway.”  
“Thank you,” he answers quietly, allowing the grateful rush in his bones to seep into his voice.  
She doesn’t acknowledge it as she waves him out of the tent.  
\- 

By the time he changes and gathers his paperwork the camp is beginning to waken. The difficulty and length of the last battle had left them all weary, convincing generals to let their troops rest. The section set aside for the wounded is bustling with activity, as always. He dodges the nurses and priests rushing by as he makes his way to the small tent he’d left Ferdinand in. Pushing aside the flap, he can see Manuela kneeling next to Ferdinand, who has been moved to a raised stretcher and covered up to his neck in a sheet.  
“Manuela. Excuse me.”  
She smiles, exhaustion dragging the corners of her mouth down so its barely more than a twitch of her lips. “Hubert. Of course, come in. I see you’ve brought some papers with you. People don’t like a man who’s married to his work, you know.”  
He scowls through the blush he feels spreading on his cheeks. “I do not have the luxury to stop working.”  
Her eyes, somehow sharper without makeup surrounding them, bore into him. “Neither do I.”  
A misstep. Manuela likely hasn’t slept, but rather spent the whole night tending to the wounded. He isn’t sure what impulse pushes him to apologize; probably the same one that had led him to this tent in the first place. “I- please, I did not mean-”  
She sighs, her whole body shifting with the release. “It’s fine. Do your work in here, dark cloud. If he wakes up, give him these immediately-” she clinks together two bottles “-and do _not_ let him get up.”  
“If?” He tries to ignore how his heart stutters when he asks.  
Her face softens, the lines fading into gentle wrinkles. “He’ll wake up, don’t you worry. It just might not be today.”  
“Yes. Right. Of course.”  
She smiles as she pushes herself to her feet, ducking out of the tent flaps. “And now I’m going to sleep. Maybe I won’t wake up today either.”  
He forces a laugh for her, but stops the instant she’s out of sight. He sets down the low table and sheath of papers he’d brought, shrugging off his coat as well. The tent is small, so that Ferdinand takes up nearly half of it. The stretcher is simple cloth, stained with blood and other fluids Hubert could likely discern if he wanted to, and is lifted from the ground by a set of crumbling bricks. Ferdinand’s brow is smooth in sleep, his face marked with small cuts from the battle but mercifully free from pain. His skin is clean, but the dirt reappears at his collar. His hair had been swept out from under his head and hangs in filthy waves off the end of the stretcher onto the ground. Hubert lifts one corner of the sheet, dragging it high enough to expose the damaged leg up to the hip. It is neatly bandaged and splintered, but the white cloth is stained brown in patches on his thigh. He stares at it for a long moment, before covering Ferdinand again.  
\- 

Ferdinand does not move throughout the day, though Hubert does. It is stifling in the little tent, the sun pounding on the canvas and the heat slinking through the gaps near the ground. By midday Hubert is stripped to his undershirt, using his heavy coat as a cushion. He’d discarded the boots as well in favor of rolling the ends of his trousers in an effort to cool down. The tent already smells of blood and the burnt flavor of magic, so he figures the boots will not be noticeable. It suddenly strikes him as ridiculous to care about the smell in the first place, as he is sitting in the middle of a war camp. He scowls at Ferdinand.  
“Four years ago, I would not have even thought about the smell of my shoes. Look what you’ve done.”  
Ferdinand does not respond except to breathe slowly, his whole torso rising with each weighted breath.  
“And you refuse to answer for your actions.”  
Somehow, the lack of an answer feels worse. He pulls himself up from the ground, stretching his back as he moves to Ferdinand’s side. He cracks his neck, partly because it is cramped from bending over the table, but mostly because it would annoy Ferdinand, if he was awake. Some irrational part of him thinks Ferdinand might wake up just to tell him off, to complain about how disgusting the noise is and primly say that Hubert will end up with a crooked spine. He does not, of course.  
Hubert reaches out for a moment, moving to push a stray lock of hair off Ferdinand’s forehead, but stops, his hand hovering. His fingers are blackened and twisted from countless uses of black magic, scarred from knives he’d handled in the dark, hardened by war and death. They hesitate above the soft lines of Ferdinand’s face, the neat draw of his brow and the gentle curve of his mouth.  
He draws his hand back, and watches a moment longer before returning to his work.  
\- 

As the afternoon comes, the day only grows hotter. Hubert is contemplating discarding his shirt entirely when a voice comes through the tent. Unable to hear it, Hubert calls the speaker in. It is the tall knight from yesterday, now out of his armor and wringing his hands in discomfort.  
“Is there-” Hubert starts, impatience in his tone, as the knights asks “How is he?”  
Hubert blinks, taken aback. Somehow, he had not considered that anyone else would come to see Ferdinand. A mark of his selfishness.  
“He has not woken up yet. Manuela did not seem concerned by that, however.”  
The knight nods, staring at Ferdinand’s blank face. “And will he ride again?”  
Bile rises in Hubert’s throat as it constricts. Half of him wants to tell the truth, to snap that Ferdinand may not _walk_ again, to unleash his frustration on this tall, kind knight. The other half, the part that’s desperately wishing that won’t be true, wins. “He will. In time,” Hubert says quietly. His gaze follows the knight’s. They sit in silence for a moment, Hubert counting each breath Ferdinand takes. He shakes himself suddenly, rising to his feet.  
“I haven’t introduced myself properly.” He awkwardly sticks out a hand, and remembers a lecture Ferdinand had once given him on proper handshakes. It had been ignored entirely at the time, but now Hubert almost wishes he’d been paying attention. “Hubert von Vestra.”  
The knight stares at his hand, and Hubert is about to snap at his rudeness when he realizes he’d forgotten to wear his gloves today. He begins to withdraw it.  
“Sorry. Yeah. I’m Markle. Markle Fenas.” He grabs Hubert’s hand before it can be pulled away. “Nice to meet you.”  
They stand awkwardly a moment, neither looking the other in the eye. Markle seems to be giving him a once over. Hubert realizes he’s standing barefoot in his undershirt, his sleeves and pants rolled up and his shirt half unbuttoned. Ferdinand would piss himself laughing at how sorry he looked.  
“Ah, excuse me, I didn’t-”  
“Hot today, isn’t it?” Markle cuts in with an awkward laugh.  
“…yes. Very.”  
“May I… could I invite some of the others from our battalion? We’re all worried, you see, and…”  
Hubert nods. “The tent is small, however, and he is not to be moved.”  
“I understand,” says Markle solemnly.  
“I actually, ah, have not eaten. So I will leave you to watch him for the next hour or so.”  
Markle tells him what’s available in the camp and he sets off, but not before fixing his outfit. He swings the heavy coat over his shoulders as he leaves the tent, the weight of it tethering him to the earth.  
\- 

When he returns, somewhat cooled by the breeze and fully fed, carrying his supper under his arm, the tent is packed with six knights, all talking quietly around Ferdinand’s body. They go silent when he enters, watching him as he tugs off his coat and sets the food on the table, now pushed into the corner. He takes a deep breath.  
“Hubert von Vestra. And you may be?”  
The knights relax and introduce themselves. He makes a point to remember their names.  
Percival. Henrietta. Wesley. Jessica. Edmund. And Markle.  
There is, as always, work to be done, so he settles himself at the table again and ignores the conversation as best he can. He is halfway through calculating their expenses for the month when Markle interrupts his train of thought.  
“Where did you first meet him, Hubert?” He bristles at the use of his first name, but frankly, he’s already forgotten Markle’s surname, so he lets it go.  
“I meet him at the Officer’s Academy, five years ago.” Not strictly true, as Ferdinand had been in Enbarr his whole childhood and met Hubert more than once before Edelgard left, but it had been where they'd actually had interactions.  
Markle nods and Hubert is picking his quill back up when one of the women- Jessica, with the dark hair, Henrietta is blonde- pipes up. “And what was he like?”  
Hubert hesitates. He does not know these knights, or what impression they might have of Ferdinand. For a split second he debates, wondering if he should try to build up his reputation, then wondering since when he had cared what people thought of Ferdinand. He goes with the first word that had come to mind. “Obnoxious.”  
The knights laugh, their voices laced with surprise.  
“Please, do tell,” says Edmund, covering his laughter with a hand.  
Hubert pauses a moment, and then he does. He tells them of how competitive Ferdinand was, how obsessed with his nobility, how he’d introduce himself with his full title. Edmund tells of Ferdinand getting in a fist fight with an innkeeper over his treatment of their horses and Hubert counters with how Ferdinand had ended up in the infirmary after challenging a merchant to a duel. Jessica spins a tale of how Ferdinand had once gotten lost in a forest, since he’d let his horse chase a deer instead of controlling her. Wesley and Henrietta tag team telling a disjointed story about Ferdinand getting drunk and singing on a table, the narrative confused by their conflicting accounts. Hubert does not press for details when Henrietta says something about Ferdinand’s state of undress at the time, as much as he’s tempted to.  
Hubert finds himself leaning forward, chuckling with the group as they discuss the antics and habits of the man stretched out in front of them, sleeping peacefully. There’s a lull in the conversation, and Edmund speaks up, fingering the ends of his hair, nearly as long as Ferdinand’s.  
“And how did this happen?”  
The subject change feels like being dunked in a river, and every part of Hubert reels away from it, from what the potential answer could be. Percival takes a deep breath before he answers.  
“He was watching my flank, taking down a swordsman on his left while I pursued an archer. He must have been turned in the saddle. Otherwise the hammer couldn’t have hit him straight on like that.”  
“He was turned away?” asks Jessica softly.  
“I think so. I was ahead of him, so I only turned back when he screamed. By the time I could see he’d already killed the man.”  
“When was it?”  
“Oh, maybe a half hour after the first clashes.”  
“A half hour?! You mean to say he rode the rest of the battle on that leg?!”  
“Yes. I told him to retreat, but we were right in the thick of it… even if he’d agreed, he might not have made it to the rear lines.”  
“And he would never have agreed, not while his troops were out there,” mutters Markle.  
The rest of them nod in agreement.  
“If I live, I fight,” says Edmund bitterly. It was a phrase Hubert had heard Ferdinand say so many times, but Edmund’s voice cuts like Ferdinand’s never had.  
Jessica breaks the brief silence. “It’s a miracle he’s alive, honestly.”  
Hubert lowers his gaze to the papers in front of him. “Who is second in command of your battalion?”  
Markle starts at his voice, like he’d forgotten he was there. “Oh. Uh, no one.”  
“No one,” Hubert repeats flatly.  
“He never thought to appoint someone.”  
“It appears he fancied himself immortal, then. Typical.” Hubert sighs. “Who shall it be?”  
No one answers, but the entire group looks at Edmund.  
“Very well. Edmund it is. Here.” Hubert hands him the paperwork for their expense reports. “Ferdinand will likely be on the sidelines for some time. Best start practicing now.”  
Edmund takes the papers with some trepidation. “I’m not sure what to do with this.”  
His first responses are _figure it out_ or _shut up and take it_ , but he can practically hear Ferdinand reprimanding him. He grits his teeth, holding them in, until he lands on what Ferdinand would call a proper response. “I’ll walk you through it.”  
\- 

The knights eventually take their leave after Edmund gets his crash course on the invoices and filings of the imperial army. He looks overwhelmed, chewing on the ends of his hair as Markle points out another expense he hadn’t thought of, but it can’t be helped. If Ferdinand hadn’t even thought to have a second in command, Hubert is not at fault for the deficiencies of his battalion. He finishes his work for the day right after sunset, heading to the other side of the camp to deliver them to Edelgard. She seems too exhausted to say much, and only nods when he informs her he’ll be staying with Ferdinand overnight by Manuela’s request. Not strictly true, but she doesn’t seem to notice the lie at all. He gathers his bedroll, some candles, and a box of matches before heading back.  
It is odd, entering a room where Ferdinand is and not being immediately accosted by his voice. Hubert mulls on this while he spreads the roll out on Ferdinand’s good side. He was always bright, energized, even when exhaustion threatened to drag his shoulders down. There was a passion, burned into every inch of his being, that could not be snuffed, whatever the circumstances. Akin to how Hubert felt about Edelgard and her path, perhaps. But that energy burns in everything he does, not just war. It exists in how he argues with Edelgard over government, how he trains his horses, how he studies the weapons of their enemies and their allies. How he approaches everything with a firm and steady love in his heart.  
Hubert finds himself wondering if he could ever be among the things Ferdinand approached with such a passion. A stupid thought, and one he dismisses as soon as it comes up. Ferdinand is bright, like the sun, and would either burn a shadow like him or be put out by the darkness. No. Better to ignore the clench in his heart, the hitch in his breath, as this unfathomable man lays before him.  
Hubert smooths out the bedroll and lays down, turning on his side. Better not to look so as not to want.  
\- 

His body reacts to the presence hovering above him before it can touch him. Instinctively, he grabs it, pinning it in place while he fishes under his pillow for his dagger, before remembering he’d left it on the other side of the tent.  
“Hubert?” Ferdinand’s soft voice makes him freeze in place.  
“Yes, it’s me,” he says back quietly. He moves to draw his hand away but Ferdinand’s fingers slip through his.  
“I knew it,” Ferdinand whispers back, clearly proud of himself. “No one has hands like yours.”  
Hubert ignores the comment and how it makes his heart pound in favor of rooting around for a candle. He finds it and strikes a match, awkwardly holding the box between his knees since Ferdinand doesn’t seem to be letting go anytime soon. He holds the light up, making Ferdinand squint.  
“There’s no need to whisper. There’s just us.”  
Ferdinand nods. His face is pale and drawn in the candlelight, pinched around his brows.  
“Manuela left some vials for you to drink.”  
Ferdinand nods again, and keeps whispering regardless of Hubert’s words. “Are they for pain?”  
“Yes.” Ferdinand’s eyes close briefly in relief. Hubert works on uncorking one, twisting the top with his one unoccupied hand. He gets both of them open after a few frustrating minutes of working one handed. Ferdinand moves to push himself up on his elbows.  
“Don’t move,” Hubert snaps, trying to concentrate on balancing the bottles on the uneven ground so they don’t spill.  
Ferdinand huffs in annoyance.  
“I am under strict orders to not let you move, Ferdinand. Do not test me.” He tries to inject a little venom in his voice, but Ferdinand laughs instead, sinking back down onto the stretcher.  
When he finally manages to get them open, he hands one vial to Ferdinand and lifts him carefully off the stretcher, supporting his shoulders with one arm. Ferdinand drinks both vials, grimacing at the taste. Hubert lowers him down and Ferdinand stares at the top of the tent, his eyes glazed over. He lifts his head and Hubert is about to scold him again when he pulls his hair, matted and tangled, out from beneath him.  
“My hair is absolutely disgusting.”  
“Unfortunately, your hair has been the least of our worries.”  
Ferdinand snorts at that. “I shall have to endure it then. Our worries?”  
Hubert feels the prickle of heat on his face as he turns away, though Ferdinand’s hand still tugs at his. “Your knights have been quite concerned. As has Manuela, and Lady Edelgard. It is… distressing to see one of our generals injured.”  
“I am sorry.”  
“For what?”  
“To have caused you distress.”  
“Ferdinand.” He pulls at Ferdinand’s fingers until he looks over. Hubert feels trapped by those amber eyes, glowing like embers in the dull candlelight. “That you are alive is enough.”  
Ferdinand winces, squeezing his eyes shut as he squeezes Hubert’s fingers. Hubert waits silently, sitting back on his heels while Ferdinand breathes deeply until his face smooths over. When he finally turns back to Hubert, his mouth is quirked into a half smile.  
“Hubert, I am so tired.”  
“Then sleep,” he replies, biting down the immediate insult. Ferdinand laughs quietly, his voice shot through with exhaustion and pain.  
“Alright.”  
Hubert settles back down beside him, blowing out the candle. Ferdinand’s fingers loosen their grip around his, but they stay hanging there, trailing into his palm. Hubert lets them rest, feeling the weight of Ferdinand’s hand and counting his steady breaths until he falls asleep.  
\- 

He wakes with a start when Ferdinand’s hand moves from his palm. Again startled, he lifts his head sharply, looking up to see Manuela kneeling over Ferdinand and saying something. He then pushes himself up to better listen to her ask Ferdinand about his pain level.  
“I am not in much pain as of now, but I am exhausted.”  
“Well, that much is to be expected. The medications will make you tired, and your body needs rest if it’s going to heal properly.”  
Ferdinand sighs. “Am I to lay here and sleep the days away?”  
“Yes,” says Manuela, an edge to her voice. “Absolutely. If you try to move around, I will personally tie you to this stretcher.”  
Ferdinand winces. “Alright, yes. I consign myself to the rest.”  
“Good. And Hubert here will be making sure you stay true to your word.”  
Hubert starts, surprised that he’s involved in the conversation at all. “I will?”  
“You absolutely will, dark cloud. Or I’ll tie you to the stretcher too,” snaps Manuela, sticking a finger in his face.  
“I concede.”  
“Good! Now, I have other patients. Hubert, he gets this vial in six hours and no sooner.”  
He takes it from her and watches, bewildered, as she hurries out of the tent.  
“She was a dream on stage,” Ferdinand says wistfully, “But she is a terrifying doctor.”  
\- 

Ferdinand alternatively complains and praises Manuela for only a few minutes more before he starts to fade, his normal energy sapped. Hubert waits for him to fall asleep again before walking to Edelgard’s tent and collecting his work for the day. She is nowhere to be found, likely asleep, so Ladislava hands him his papers. He stops to change his clothes, leaving his coat behind in favor of lighter clothes and grabbing an hourglass to track the time before returning to the tent.  
The day passes slowly. Ferdinand spends most of it sleeping quietly, only waking every few hours to comment on the heat or ask about his knights. Hubert keeps his answers short and encourages him to go back to sleep, rudely informing Ferdinand of how disruptive he is only to be laughed at.  
At five and a half hours from Manuela’s departure, Ferdinand can no longer stay asleep as the pain in his leg grows.  
“It is awful, Hubert, just give me the vial.”  
“She said six hours. There are still thirty minutes left.”  
“I am sure thirty minutes will not change anything.”  
“I am not,” Hubert replies, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “I have no idea what is in these vials.”  
“It is impossible that it could make a difference.”  
“I will be following her exact orders, in case it can.”  
Ferdinand’s voice breaks. “Hubert, _please_.”  
Hubert closes his eyes against the pain in Ferdinand’s voice. “No.” Setting his quill aside, he gets up and crosses the tent to kneel by Ferdinand’s side. Tears flow heavy down Ferdinand's cheeks, carving paths in the dust on his skin. Hubert flounders, unsure what to say to that face.  
“Shall I, uh… tell you about your knights?”  
“My knights?”  
“Yes. I met a handful of them. Markle, Jessica, Edmund." It takes him a moment to remember the other three names. "Percival, Wesley, and Henrietta. They told me such intriguing stories about you.”  
Ferdinand’s face goes pale under his tears. “Oh no.”  
“Oh, yes. Should I recount them for you?”  
To his surprise, Ferdinand laughs, his voice wet and cracked. “My knights told you uncouth stories about me?”  
“I- yes.”  
“My imagination fails me. What was it like, being… sociable?”  
“I am plenty sociable, when the situation calls for it.”  
“Yes, of course,” says Ferdinand with a weak smile. Hubert will take the insults over the tears. He tries to hand Ferdinand a handkerchief as casually as possible while he tries to think of some clever comeback. Ferdinand’s mouth goes crooked as he takes it, suggesting that the gesture was not going to be as easily overlooked as he would have hoped.  
“Well, I, uh… have learned from the best.”  
“The best?” Ferdinand asks, mopping his face. His breaths still come too quick, but he’s calming now, settling back into the stretcher.  
“Yes. I have you has an excellent example of what not to do in social settings.”  
Predictably, that sets Ferdinand off. “You- _oaf!_ I will have you know that I excel at social situations of all types, and am well versed in not only Fódlan’s cultural standards but those of Brigid and Dagda, and am perfectly capable of-”  
Hubert sits back, watching with amusement as Ferdinand still manages to work himself up without being able to move very far. He raises an arm as Ferdinand tries and fails to hit him with the handkerchief before throwing it to the ground and ending his rant with a huff.  
“Are you done?” Hubert asks, carefully concealing his laughter as he picks up the discarded fabric.  
“ _No_ ,” Ferdinand replies, “I will not have one such as you be making a mockery of my abilities, as you see ever fit to underestimate me. If you insist on such blasphemous lies, I daresay I will-”  
Hubert tunes out his voice again, watching the sand in the hourglass on his desk trickle away. When the top finally empties out, he interrupts Ferdinand, who has continued at full force even though Hubert is clearly not paying attention.  
“It’s been six hours.”  
“…oh.”  
Hubert lifts him enough to allow him to drink the vial before lowering him back down. After a few minutes, Ferdinand sighs in relief.  
“Better?”  
“Much.”  
“I am glad to hear that.”  
“…you did that on purpose, did you not?”  
“Did what?”  
“Insulted me and riled me up. I did not much notice how long I had been talking. It took my mind off the pain.”  
“Did it now.”  
“Ha! Do not play coy, Hubert, it does not suit you.”  
“I can’t say I know what you’re talking about.”  
“Oh, come now, I have you caught, you must concede.”  
“Never,” Hubert says, trying to keep his voice devoid of the fondness he feels. Ferdinand’s answering smile is soft enough that he knows he’s failed.  
\- 

Manuela returns in the middle of the afternoon with a bulging bag, while Hubert is staining a letter with sweat. She gives him a curt nod and immediately turns to Ferdinand, asking about his pain. Without giving him a chance to respond, she pulls the sheet up suddenly, running her hands down his injured leg. Ferdinand arches back with pain as she does so.  
Manuela mutters something to herself before waving Hubert forward and handing him Ferdinand’s ankle.  
“Lift it.”  
Hubert looks up at Ferdinand, who’s peering down his nose at them. He nods, and Hubert lifts, forcing himself to ignore Ferdinand’s muffled moan as he does so. Manuela’s hands make quick work of unwrapping the outer layer of bandages. It exposes the wound on the side of Ferdinand’s thigh, which she inspects closely, while keeping the splints in place. She rests gentle fingers on it, watching Ferdinand’s face for his reaction, before she pulls fresh bandages from her bag and rewraps his leg. Hubert gently lowers Ferdinand’s leg back down.  
“The wound is closing well, so there’s no worry of you bleeding out. I can’t tell about your bone because of the swelling, though. I can give you more healing in your ankle, since I’m confident about that, but your thigh will have to wait.”  
She holds her hands over Ferdinand’s ankle, mumbling a prayer as the scent of magic floods the tent. He holds himself very still, clearly trying not to squirm.  
“You can get up for essential reasons only. I’ll send over crutches you can use. Absolutely no weight on this leg.”  
She gets up and grabs Hubert by the arm, dragging him to the other side of the tent.  
“He needs water and food, especially water. Keep him laying down unless he has to piss.” Hubert winces. “Oh, grow up, everyone has to. Lots of water, lots of rest.”  
Ferdinand leans up to ask, “Can I take a bath? I am, to be blunt, disgusting.”  
Manuela waves a hand at Hubert. “He’ll help you.”  
“I will?”  
“I’m not doing it.” She leans in close, pressing a satchel into his hand. “Start weaning him off the vials. Go to eight hours.”  
“Already?!”  
“I don’t have the supplies to give you any more than that.”  
“Manuela, please, he begs me for-”  
“They all do, Hubert,” she hisses at him before turning sharply on her heel and leaving the tent.  
He stands there a moment, feeling the shape of the vials through the leather bag. Ferdinand is laying back now, but Hubert can still hear his noisy breathing as he calms himself after the movement.  
It takes all his self-control to not crush the vials in his hand.  
\- 

Hubert gets Ferdinand food, which he barely eats. They’re arguing about Ferdinand finishing his bread, making Hubert feel like an overbearing mother, when Markle pokes his head through the tent flap.  
“Um, excuse me?”  
“Markle, will you tell your stubborn general here that he needs to eat?”  
“Leave him out of this, Hubert. I have told you, I doubt I will hold it down.”  
“Uh, is there-”  
“You haven’t eaten anything in two days, you dolt, it’s not healthy to-”  
“Manuela emphasized the water, and I still feel-”  
“Regardless of her emphasis, you must-”  
“There is no point in-”  
“Will you two stop?!” Markle butts in, rubbing his temples in annoyance. “I just came to drop off the crutches.”  
Ferdinand pouts. “You did not come to see me?”  
Markle stares at him in exasperation before consenting. “Yes, of course I came to see you.”  
That earns him a bright smile in response, one that makes Hubert more jealous than he’d like to admit. “Good. Bring the others, I am quite awake now.”  
Hubert glares at him. “You get thirty minutes, and no more.”  
Ferdinand blithely ignores him. “Things would be better if I did not have such a dour nursemaid,” he says brightly to Markle, “But they are looking up now that the company has improved.”  
“I _will_ poison you.”  
“Then I will absolutely not be eating any food you bring me.” Ferdinand finishes his sentence with a bright, sharp smile that seems to cut the tendons in Hubert’s knees.  
“I- uh,” he flounders, struggling to think of a retort, and fails to produce one. “I’ll take my leave now.”  
Ferdinand’s smile grows. He cheerily waves goodbye as Hubert gathers his papers and leaves the tent. Outside, he has to take a moment to himself to let his own smile fade, schooling his face back into something more professional before heading off to speak to Edelgard.  
\- 

He gets caught up talking to Edelgard about their spy network in the Kingdom, so by the time he returns to the tent Ferdinand’s knights have come and gone. Ferdinand appears to be dozing off, stirring enough to wave but saying nothing when Hubert enters.  
The next few hours are spent working through the newest reports from the Kingdom, deciphering the coded messages and trying to reconcile the conflicting information. By the time he is done, the hourglass is almost empty, indicating that eight hours are nearly up. He is surprised but grateful that Ferdinand hasn’t been woken from the pain again. When the time runs out, he wakes Ferdinand and gives him the vial. Then Ferdinand asks for his bath, and Hubert feels like his death sentence has just been signed. He excuses himself immediately to fetch water and towels, and, more importantly, to steel himself for seeing a lot of Ferdinand’s body.  
\- 

Some stupid, pathetic part of him has itself convinced that bathing Ferdinand may be romantic, or even titillating.  
It is not.  
Bathing Ferdinand is an arduous task, as Ferdinand can barely move by himself. Hubert has to hold him upright, because sitting up by himself puts too much strain on his leg. Ferdinand does most of the work, wiping the mixture of dirt, sweat, and blood off his skin with a wet towel while Hubert steadies him. When he ties up his hair, the filthy locks snarling together, Hubert washes his back, holding him with one hand between the shoulder blades. They work as quickly as possible, since every slight movement makes Ferdinand hiss with pain. When they finish, Ferdinand is mostly clean, but the stretcher under him is soaked. Hubert hauls Ferdinand to his feet, making sure the crutches are under him before he runs off to try and find a clean stretcher.  
He gets into a brief shouting match with Manuela, who complains about him stealing more of her supplies, before he manages to wrestle the stretcher out of her grip and return to the tent. Ferdinand is balancing precariously on his crutches as he dries himself off, and Hubert studiously ignores how much skin is exposed to focus on setting up the new stretcher. When he finishes, he carefully lowers Ferdinand, only wearing a dangerously low-slung towel, back down. He looks up at Hubert, panting as he shifts on the stretcher.  
“That was _awful_ ,” he says, laughing slightly as he does. “Almost not worth the reward of being clean.”  
Hubert, who is trying very hard to keep his eyes away from Ferdinand’s stomach and the deep vs that curve over his hips, stutters on his response. “Uh, yes, it- was certainly an ordeal.”  
“I do feel much better, though,” Ferdinand says thoughtfully, unaware of Hubert’s distress. “Even if my hair is still disgusting.”  
“Is this your way of implying I have to wash your hair next?”  
“Oh, I was not implying. You have to.”  
“I do not.”  
“Then I will never speak to you again.”  
“That seems like a reward rather than a punishment.”  
Ferdinand gives him a petulant pout. “You do not mean that.”  
“But I do.”  
“You do not,” Ferdinand says, now with an air of dismissive grandiosity. “But fine, I shall buy you that coffee you like if you wash my hair.”  
“Is there no reward for washing the rest of you?”  
“Manuela did not kill you.”  
“That is… a fair point. Very well, I will accept your coffee.”  
Hubert takes the buckets and sullied towels with him as he hunts for a better vessel to wash the mass of Ferdinand’s hair in. Eventually, he returns to the tent, fresh water and towels in hand.  
The stretcher being raised, Hubert can slide the wide bin underneath Ferdinand’s head. He’s pretty certain that it is normally used for feeding the horses, but maybe that fact had escaped Ferdinand’s notice. He pulls Ferdinand’s hair out of its tie and dumps it in the water while Ferdinand pushes himself back further to better let his head hang over the edge. The water is instantly clouded by the dirt clinging to Ferdinand’s hair, and Hubert grimaces as he sticks his hands in the strands to pull them apart. He reminds himself to ask for at least a pound of coffee, if not two.  
“How can you possibly stand having so much hair?”  
Ferdinand hums thoughtfully. “Well, I did not mean to acquire so much. I forgot to cut it.”  
“This is more than forgetting to cut it, Ferdinand.”  
“It has been a long war.”  
Hubert has no response to that, so he focuses on digging into the knots in Ferdinand’s hair. With some coaxing, the orange begins to reveal itself again, the color appearing like the sunrise. It takes some time, and Hubert doesn’t bother trying comb out most of the knots, but Ferdinand’s hair is eventually clean enough for Hubert, if not for Ferdinand. He braids it quickly and sloppily, wringing out as much of the water as he can before drying it off with a towel. When he finishes, Ferdinand is asleep again, his head tipped back and his breathing even. Hubert drapes the long braid over Ferdinand’s shoulder allows himself one long look down his bare chest, crossed with small white scars and toned from fighting, before he leaves the tent.  
\- 

During his meeting with Edelgard, they make preparations to break camp in three days and head west to try and break the stalemate near Arianrhod. Whether or not it will work is unclear; their troops are spread thin by the Kingdom’s resistance, and, even if they reach the Silver Maidan, they likely won’t have the numbers to take it. Edelgard insists that they must try, even if the plan fails.  
Hubert tells Ferdinand that he will be moved to Fort Merceus. He takes the news well, all things considered, staring blankly at the walls of the tent as he nods. Moving to the desk, Hubert works through the paperwork he still has, dealing with the petty complaints and sifting through the numbers and losses. Ferdinand dozes the rest of the day, saying nothing. When Markle comes by to see him, Hubert turns him away.  
\- 

Ferdinand brightens, but only slightly, over the next two days. He is dazed and in pain, alternating his time between sleeping, half reading Hubert’s endless reports, and trying to pretend his leg hurts less than it does. Hubert does not begrudge him for trying to save face, and does not comment on it.  
\- 

On their last night, he wakes Ferdinand gives him his next vial. It takes several minutes, as always, for the pain to subside, and Hubert waits in the candlelight, watching the flame dance. Eventually he notices Ferdinand has pushed himself up on his elbows in order to see his face better, but Hubert is too tired to scold him for it.  
“Hubert?”  
Hubert hums in response, playing with the soft wax dripping down the candle.  
“How bad is it?”  
The air leaves him in a rush. He shifts, leaning over Ferdinand, trying to buy himself some time. “You shouldn’t trouble yourself with this now.”  
“I need to know.” There’s steel in Ferdinand’s voice, a hardness he rarely shows, and Hubert relents.  
“…alright. It’s not… terrible.”  
“Will I recover?”  
“In all likelihood.”  
“I mean entirely. Will I have all my facilities back, all my strength?”  
Hubert tries to keep his face blank, but his hands clench into fists. Ferdinand, normally so oblivious, notices immediately. “Most probably,” Hubert forces out, but it doesn’t sound convincing, even to him.  
“Do not _lie to me_ ,” Ferdinand snarls, glaring up at him.  
“Ferdinand, I-”  
“ _Tell me._ ”  
“You may not…” Hubert trails off, fixing his gaze on a corner of shadow at the tent’s edge.  
“May not ride again?”  
“…may not keep your leg.” Looking away, he’s spared from seeing whatever emotions flit across Ferdinand’s face.  
“I might lose my leg?” he finally asks, quiet in the darkened tent.  
“Yes.”  
“Then I may as well die.”  
Hubert scowls. “Ferdinand, be reasonable.”  
“I am. You know what you do with a lame horse?”  
“You are not a horse.”  
“You kill it. Swiftly.”  
“You’re being irrational.”  
Ferdinand’s voice suddenly rises. “I am _not_ , Hubert!”  
Hubert is stunned into silence, watching Ferdinand’s face contort in anger. “I joined this war for battle. That is what I contribute to Edelgard’s cause, and it is _all_ I can contribute. If I live, I _fight_.”  
His words echo in the tent, leaving the two of them in a cold silence, neither looking at the other. Hubert makes to reach out, offering his hand to Ferdinand, who lays back with a huff.  
“Ferdinand, listen-”  
“Goodnight, Hubert,” Ferdinand cuts in, his voice bleeding with exhaustion.  
“…goodnight.”  
\- 

Hubert dreams of Ferdinand kneeling at his feet, his head bowed. Hubert holds a hammer in his scarred hands, and Ferdinand’s voice pleads with him to use it, to crush whatever is left and start anew, to free him of a life wasted on the sidelines.  
Eventually, he complies.  
-

Hubert wakes up sweating, his breath coming sharp and fast. He wildly lunges for the candle, nearly burning himself as he lights a match, raising the light to see Ferdinand laid out beside him, his skull intact and his face smooth with sleep. Shaken, he drags his fingers through Ferdinand’s hairline, listening to him murmur with the disturbance. His hand lingers at Ferdinand’s temple, and Hubert wonders if his heart could actually beat out of his chest. He allows himself to linger only a moment longer before settling back down. He lays awake the rest of the night, staring into the darkness, thinking of ways Ferdinand could continue to fight from the rear lines, and knowing he would accept none of them.  
\- 

Hubert moves from the tent as soon as it’s light, taking his time wandering the camp. By the time he returns, Ferdinand is awake, turning to him tiredly.  
“Hubert-”  
“Ferdinand-”  
They both stop, awkwardly sinking into silence. Hubert stares at his hands, burned black.  
“You go first,” says Ferdinand softly.  
“I’m sorry.”  
Ferdinand laughs, sharp and cold. “I doubt that.”  
Hubert sighs and sits cross legged by Ferdinand’s head. “I am. Truly.”  
He receives no answer but amber eyes trying to find his. They almost burn into him, and he turns himself away from the scrutiny, desperate to hide even as he forces himself to be open.  
“I don’t understand you, and I never will. I have spent many years in the shadows. Most of my contributions to Lady Edelgard’s cause have been far from the front lines, far from battle. And I prefer it that way. It is where I excel.”  
Hubert takes a deep breath, steadying himself before he continues, still avoiding Ferdinand’s gaze.  
“I would be devastated if I could no longer serve, of course. But there are so many avenues through which I can assist her. If one is no longer feasible, I have others. I find it hard to… sympathize with your single-mindedness. As I often do, I suppose. So I am sorry. That I did not know how much this means to you. That I cannot understand you.”  
Ferdinand still does not respond. The silence makes Hubert deeply uncomfortable; he is always at his worst when he has no information, nothing to work off of. He breaks it by prompting, “and you were saying?”  
He can feel Ferdinand’s eyes on him, scorching his skin like his gaze is made of pure sunlight, hot and relentless.  
“I am certain it pleases you to know I have been made fully aware of my inferiority to Edelgard,” Ferdinand says coldly, “and I have no lands, no title, and no position in her government. By her philosophy, I do not deserve any of those privileges as I am. And so I have nothing to contribute aside from my lance and axe and sword. If I cannot fight, I have nothing.”  
“That is patently false. And it is unlike you to speak like this.”  
“I thought you claimed not to understand me.” The tent could be set in Faerghus in the middle of winter for all the ice in Ferdinand’s voice. Hubert holds himself still against the storm.  
“I can observe, objectively. And what I have seen is your- brightness. Optimism. You have a mind for tactics, and for government. You are always striving for more. The Emperor will need a steady heart like yours by her side, both now and in the future.”  
When he finally looks up, Ferdinand has turned his head away, but not far enough that Hubert can’t see the blush under his freckles.  
“I thought I told you that the next time you compliment me, you must put it in writing,” Ferdinand mumbles.  
“My apologies. If there is a next time, I will remember to do so.”  
The room begins to thaw, the summer heat cracking the ice around them.  
“Hubert.”  
“Yes?”  
“I may never walk again.”  
“…I know.”  
“If I lose my leg, if I never fight again… What will I be worth?”  
_The same as now: everything._ “In war, your optimism and bold strategies. In peace, your passion and unique insight.”  
Ferdinand is still turned away, but Hubert can hear the smile in his answer. “You just did it again. I told you, writing.”  
“Ah. I hope you can forgive me.”  
“I do, of course.”  
-

Hubert gets to work again around noon, busying himself with organizing the troops for departure. He consults with Manuela about the number of injured and the logistics of moving them, making sure Ferdinand is included. While most of the troops will be leaving tomorrow at dawn, the injured soldiers and those heading to the fort will be leaving this afternoon. Hubert can smell the rain on the wind; he had convinced Edelgard that their injured soldiers should not be moved if the weather turned, and finds himself eager to have everyone moving before the rains come. He tries not to think of Ferdinand being trapped in a crowded cart on washed out roads. The war had turned his attention away from the infrastructure of the Empire, and he had spent less time and effort tracking the state of the roads. Now he’s cursing himself for that as Manuela points out the defects in the carts she’d been given. He watches the injured be loaded before promising her at least two more sturdy carts for the trip to Fort Merceus.  
When he’s finished, he finds himself back by Ferdinand’s bedside. Ferdinand’s face is drawn and pale with pain again.  
“Are you going to move me now?”  
“In a moment. Manuela will be bringing the carts into the camp to make it easier.”  
“Oh, how kind,” Ferdinand says absently. His eyes are clouded, focused on nothing.  
“Ferdinand?”  
“Forgive me, I…” He sighs, heavily. “It is nothing.”  
“Tell me.”  
Ferdinand gives him a droll look.  
“I’m serious. I… appreciate your honesty.”  
He gets a dramatic eyeroll in response. “I am honest.”  
“Then tell me.”  
“Fine!” Ferdinand throws up his hands, nearly hitting Hubert in the face. “I was going to ask you to write,” he says quietly.  
“Oh. I, uh, well-”  
“It was a silly request, I know you cannot-”  
“I’d love to.” Hubert winces at his own tone. He knows how long he has been eager to be in contact with Ferdinand, but it is not something Ferdinand needs to know.  
“Of course you- what?”  
“I likely won’t be able to write to you for some weeks while we march, but I will endeavor to send you something.”  
“I- oh. Well. I would like that.” Ferdinand’s face is round with surprise, his eyes warm like a fire, and Hubert finds himself leaning in like a moth to the flames. He’s saved from doing something stupid by Manuela’s voice outside, paired with the rumble of cart wheels.  
He and Manuela manage to drag Ferdinand to his feet. They use Hubert’s low desk as a stepstool to get Ferdinand up into the cart, and Hubert lowers him as carefully as possible onto the bedroll laid out for him. Ferdinand’s injury is among the most serious of the group, so he will be joined later by soldiers who can sit up themselves. Hubert is turning to hop back out when Ferdinand catches his hand.  
“Stay safe,” he whispers, that open face flooded with concern.  
Hubert hesitates, then squeezes the fingers in his palm. “I will.”  
The instant he steps out of the cart, Manuela sends it off to pick up more wounded. He stands in the road to watch the group set off an hour later, and stays there until the last cart has disappeared from view.  
-

The rain begins as they break camp in the morning, a light drizzle coating all their equipment. They set off, turning northwest towards the border with the Kingdom. Hubert keeps himself busy with cataloging supplies and troops. He flits through the ranks, checking on the horses, the supplies, and the healers, before stationing himself outside Edelgard’s cart. The rain continues, and they march on.   
-

**Author's Note:**

> an ode to knee surgery  
> Title is from "Holy Branches" by Radical Face  
> Thanks for reading! Hopefully the next part will be finished in a week or so!


End file.
